The Changelings
by ArgentNoelle
Summary: Last night, Lord Voldemort failed to kill the boy called Harry Potter, and disappeared. Now, Harry Potter lies on the steps of the Dursleys, asleep. Draco Malfoy sleeps also in Malfoy Manor. Imagine that, for some reason, at this very instant, the two boys switched places. Not their bodies—no, only their minds. What would happen?


Sections that start with **bold letters** are about Harry, sections that start with _Italic_ are Draco's.

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The Changelings

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Imagine, for a moment, the scene: It is early morning, the day after Halloween, 1981. Last night, Lord Voldemort failed to kill the boy called Harry Potter, and disappeared. Last night, the Wizarding War ended.

Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, lies unaware on the steps of the Dursleys, wrapped round with spells and protections.

Draco Malfoy sleeps in Malfoy Manor, not hearing the hushed conversations of his mother and father, on the floor below. They have heard about the Boy Who Lived—as has everyone, it seems.

Now, imagine that, for some reason, at this very instant, the two boys switched places. Not their bodies—no, only their minds.

What would happen?

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"_Mamama,"_ the boy said, again, with a choked off sob. He seemed terrified. Petunia Dursley turned away from her son, yet again, and with a sigh, looked at the boy—her nephew—hastily bundled into an old high chair of Dudley's while they tried to figure out what to do with him. Not that it would make a difference, she thought. She already knew he would stay. The letter had made sure of that.

She walked over to the boy, looking into his emerald green eyes, viciously pushing down the sliver of pity that tried to well up in her. "Your parents," she said, slowly, "are dead."

The tears started once more. He began to wail incoherently.

Did he even know what she meant? Petunia wondered. Did those words mean anything to him, or was he just reacting to the tone of her voice? Had he seen—she stopped that line of thought before it could go any further.

"Yes," she said, almost kindly. "They are. They're not coming back, Harry."

"Nonono!" He shook his head. "Ma…"

Petunia sighed and closed her eyes. Then she turned as Dudley shrieked, unhappy at being ignored. She rushed over to him. "Oh, Duddykins, it's all right," she cooed. "Now, now, it's all right. The bad man won't hurt you. He won't hurt anybody ever again."

Behind her, the other boy sobbed.

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"**Not mommy,"** the boy said, futilely trying to wiggle away from Narcissa's hold. "Not mommy daddy! Go way!"

"He's been like this all morning!" she sobbed, tearfully. "I don't know what's wrong with him!"

Lucius stood behind her, watching the doctor anxiously.

"I'll be able to find out what it is," the doctor assured her.

Half an hour later, he wasn't quite so confident. "Well, there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with him," he said, helplessly.

"Nothing wrong with him!" Narcissa was livid. "What kind of a doctor do you call yourself? He doesn't recognize me! How can you say there's nothing wrong with him!"

"I'm sorry," the doctor answered apologetically, "But he is perfectly healthy. No sickness, no spells that I can find—"

"But you must do _something_!" Narcissa said.

"I—I can't."

Narcissa picked the boy up again. "Fine!" she answered. "We'll find another doctor, then! One who knows what he's talking about!"

But every doctor they tried gave the same answer: there was no reason for Draco's sudden loss of memory.

"I don't understand," Narcissa said, softly, to the boy, as he lay asleep in his room.

The universe did not answer.

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_The first night_ they put him in the cupboard, Draco pounded on the door, crying, until he fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion. Every night after that, he repeated to himself, "I'm not a freak—they are. They're the freaks. They don't have magic, none of them do." He couldn't say why, exactly, he knew that not having magic was unnatural, but it was a certainty in his mind, one that kept him sane. They were jealous of him because _he_ could do magic, and they couldn't. "I'm not a freak—they are."

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**Harry knew** he felt out of place, sometimes. He'd heard, often enough, the story of how, when he was about year old, he'd apparently forgotten his mother and father, loudly exclaiming that he had been kidnapped. It made him smile, but only seemed further proof that he'd never felt he belonged where he was. When mother and father talked about muggles and muggleborns, how they were polluting the WIzarding World, he tried to believe—he really did—but deep down, the thought wouldn't go away—_they can't that bad, can they?_ Thinking that made him feel unclean somehow, as if he were betraying something, but still it wouldn't go away.

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_When Draco_ went to school, he learned who he was. It wasn't as if the Dursleys had never called him Harry—they had—but he'd always known it wasn't his name, just as _freak_ wasn't his name.

It was only when the teacher called it out for the second time, Dudley poking him in the side, and whispering, "that's you," that he realized she meant him.

"Um, excuse me," he said, quietly. Immediately, all eyes were on him, and he began to wish he had not spoken. But he couldn't stop now. "That—that's not my name."

The teacher raised her eyebrow. He knew what that look meant—she didn't believe him. "Really?" she asked gamely. "What _is_ your name?"

Draco was silent. After a few moments, sniggers started up in the room.

"Your name?" the teacher prompted.

"I…I don't know," he said, in a miserable whisper, his face flaming red.

The sniggers turned to outright laughter.

"Quiet!" the teacher ordered. She turned back to him. "Well," she started, "I'm sorry, but I'll have to call you Harry. I can't just not call you anything."

The laughter had risen to hoots and howls. Draco wished he could sink into the ground.

It got worse. After making such a fool of himself, no one protested much when Dudley decided to make his weird cousin an outcast—not that he would have had luck with that even if he'd kept his mouth shut.

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_Harry used_ to believe his parents were still alive. He used to believe he had magic. He also used to believe his name was not Harry. After that day of school, he didn't know what to believe anymore. Perhaps, he thought desperately, he had just made it up, had wished so hard not to be related to the Dursleys, to have a reason they tormented him that cast _them_ as the villains, that he'd made himself believe it; like some sort of Cinderella.

For the first time that night, he didn't say his mantra before falling asleep.

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**Draco was** lying on his bed when Dobby popped in. He sat up, watching the house elf tidy the room. He sighed.

Dobby looked at him.

Draco stood up and leaned against the window. "I disappointed father again today," he said.

"Dobby has heard," Dobby said, tentatively.

"I guess you would've," Draco said bitterly. "Will I ever be good enough for him?"

"If master wants Dobby to answer…"

"Yes," Draco said.

"I do not think so," Dobby said sadly.

"Yeah," Draco said, closing his eyes. "I know." He felt the house-elf touch him lightly on the shoulder before disappearing once more.

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_It was_ the summer before his eleventh birthday when everything changed for Harry. He'd been taken to the zoo for Dudley's birthday because the Dursleys couldn't think of any way to get rid of him, and while he was there he ended up striking up a conversation with a snake.

On the ride to the zoo, listening vaguely to Uncle Vernon's ranting, Harry said, "I had a dream about a flying motorcycle." Predictably, this turned all of Uncle Vernon's wrath onto him, but it was worth it for the short silence when everyone's attention focused on him in disbelief.

When the snake seemed to understand him his eyes grew wide. A grin started spreading over his face. He was talking to a snake. He was _actually_ talking to a snake.

Just then, Dudley's friend ruined the moment. Before he knew it, Harry had been pushed aside unceremoniously as Dudley leaned up against the glass. A flare of anger lit in Harry, and then—Dudley was inside the snake cage, and the snake was outside. He stared for a moment, and started laughing. He didn't care what it would cost him to do so—he couldn't stop.

Dudley pounded on the glass, trying to get out—but he couldn't, Harry thought delightedly. Now _he_ was the captive.

"Thanksss, Amigo," the snake said as it slithered to freedom.

"Any time," Harry answered.

Of course, he paid for his crime dearly, by being locked inside his cupboard for the rest of the summer, but it was worth it—he could do magic. He'd proved it. He was a magician.

Of course, his elation ended abruptly when he couldn't make any more magic happen. After trying for the umpteenth time to unlock the cupboard door, he flopped down on the bed. "Die," he told the spiders on the ceilings. "Go on, die!"

They went on merrily spinning their webs.

Fat lot of use it was being a magician if he couldn't make his magic work when he wanted it to, he thought gloomily.

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_Coming out_ of Madam Malkins, Harry asked Hagrid, pensively, about the Hogwarts Houses. The boy who had spoken so disparagingly of Hagrid had wanted to be in Slytherin. What did he mean? What was all this about?

Listening to Hagrid's short explanation, Harry decided he'd better figure out which house he wanted to be in. He might have wanted to be in Slytherin, but the fact that every dark wizard—including You-Know-Who—had come from there cooled that desire. Out of the rest, Hufflepuff seemed to have the wrong sort of reputation, and Ravenclaw was not his place, he could tell. That left Gryffindor, though he wasn't too sure about that one, either.

"Hagrid," he asked finally. "Dumbledore—what house was he in?"

Hagrid _had_ said Dumbledore was the greatest wizard, after all.

"Gryffindor," Hagrid answered.

Well that settled it, Harry decided. He was going to be in Gryffindor.

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**The morning** that Draco was to leave for Hogwarts, he called Dobby to his room.

"Yes, master Draco?" Dobby asked, turning his lamplike eyes on him. Draco smiled. "I know you hate working here," he started.

"Dobby does not hate—" Dobby started. Draco took his hand from behind his back. A sock was clutched in his hand. He held it out shyly. "If you want it…"

Dobby stared. He looked up at Draco. "Master would free me?"

"Yes," Draco said.

Carefully, Dobby took the sock from Draco's hand, holding it reverently.

"Just, don't let my parents find out until I've left for Hogwarts, all right?" Draco asked quietly.

"Of course," Dobby said, holding the sock. "Dobby will do as Draco asks. Dobby thanks you, sir! But sir, why did you do it?"

"Because you're my friend, Dobby," Draco said. "My whole life you've been my friend. And now I'm going to go away, and I just thought, well, I wanted to help you, somehow…"

"Dobby understands," Dobby said, gravely. Draco smiled.

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_Harry found_ himself at platform nine and three quarters, not knowing how to get in. Obviously, there must be a hidden door somewhere, but where? He should have asked Hagrid, he berated himself. But he hung around in between the platforms, looking for anything out of the ordinary, something wizardy. When it came, it was hard to miss. A family of redheads, talking of Muggles, trailed past. Harry walked up to the woman and started to ask, politely, how to get through. The woman smiled and directed him how to do it. Despite himself, Harry felt almost thankful.

He took a compartment to himself but was soon joined by the red headed boy, Ron. Ron started talking to him about the Wizarding World, while Harry listened attentively. This boy could be useful, he thought. And he, too, would be going into Gryffindor.

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"**Harry Potter?" Draco asked.**

"Yeah, he's in that compartment over there."

Draco pushed his way through the crowd of people with the help of Crabbe and Goyle, opening the door and ducking in. There were two boys in the compartment—one of which was the boy he'd met in Madam Malkins.

"You're Harry Potter?" Draco asked, staring. The boy had messy black hair, startlingly green eyes, and was smaller than he would've expected. His clothes were obviously hand-me-downs from someone much bigger than him. The muggles he lived with must be poor then, Draco thought. He had no reason to envy this person—and yet, for one moment, when their eyes met, he was hit by the thought that _he_ belonged there, not that boy.

"Yeah," Harry returned, brazenly. "Why?"

Dazed, Draco held out a hand. "I'm Draco. Malfoy. I mean…" suddenly, something his father had told him once flitted through his head, and he found himself echoing it almost unconsciously. "Well, I was just thinking…now that you've entered the Wizarding World, you'd want to meet the right people. And I just thought…" _I'd like to be your friend_.

Harry looked over at the other boy. He must be a Weasley, Draco thought—red hair and patched up robes, who else could it be?

The boy shook his head, very slightly, looking at Draco as if he'd insulted his family. Which he might've, Draco thought, but he didn't think so…

"Thanks," Harry said. "But I don't need your help."

Draco had not even considered that the boy might reject his offer. He pulled his hand back, feeling a fool. "Fine," he said. "If that's the way you want it." It came out sounding more like a threat than he'd meant it to.

Was he only imagining the look of regret in the boy's eyes?

He walked out of the compartment, letting the door slide shut behind him. As he went, he heard the voice of the other boy. "Too bad he didn't start a fight—"

Draco closed his eyes. He glanced at Crabbe and Goyle, waiting for him to decide what to do next.

"Come on," he said tiredly. "Let's go find some people we know."

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"_What do you_ mean, I belong in Slytherin?" Harry asked the Sorting Hat. "I need to go in Gryffindor."

I mean just what I said. You belong in Slytherin.

"No I don't," Harry said. "I'm going into Gryffidor."

And I'm trying to tell you, you'd fit _best_ in Slytherin—

"I don't care. I have to be in Gryffidor."

_Fine!_ The Hat said huffily. If that's what you _really_ _want_…

"It is."

Harry almost thought he heard a sigh, before the hat called out, "GRYFFINDOR!"

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**Draco sat** under the hat while it muttered to itself.

Well, I think you'd do best in Slytherin, it said at last.

Draco wasn't really surprised, and yet part of him he hadn't even known was hoping subsided in disappointment.

You could be great you know, the Hat said. Slytherin will help you there.

"Really?" Draco thought.

Of course. I know what I'm talking about.

"SLYTHERIN!"

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